


A Part to Play

by BewareTheIdes15



Series: Not A Verse [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Not Related, Angst, Car Sex, First Time, M/M, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-26
Updated: 2012-08-26
Packaged: 2017-11-12 22:02:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/496116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BewareTheIdes15/pseuds/BewareTheIdes15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean knows Sam needs him, loves him, should be with him - now he just has to convince Sammy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Part to Play

He’s losing Sam; he knows it. People think Dean’s stupid because he barely manages to keep his grades to a C average, because he spends his free time working in a garage for money to refurbish the Impala, because he wears a leather jacket even in the summer and doesn’t try to impress anybody with five-syllable words. But they’re wrong; Dean’s not stupid, he just doesn’t care about all the shit they try to sell him as important – he knows what he’s going to do today and tomorrow and every day for the rest of his life, so he’s not going to waste his time on algorithms or sonnets or any of that other crap. The stuff he cares about he knows inside out and upside down and Sammy’s at the very top of that list with the couple of spaces below reserved for him too, because just one slot could never hold everything about Sam that matters to Dean.

Sammy doesn’t get it, and sometimes Dean thinks it’s going to kill him before the kid figures it out.

He knows he’s losing Sam because he’s seen the way the kid looks at the new girl. Sammy’s always been kinda quiet, kinda shy, never much for crushes and things like that. Privately, Dean always thought that had something to do with him, but now he’s not so sure. The only thing he’s really sure of is that he’s never wanted to punch a girl before, but he does every single time Sam smiles at Gwen or talks to Gwen or talks _about_ Gwen. Dean hates Gwen; the bitch can go fuck off and die for all he cares, he’s not gonna let her have Sammy.

It takes a minute from the time Dean’s knock rattles the screen door at the back of Sam’s house for Bobby to come back and let him in. He could get in on his own, of course, the door’s probably not even locked this time of night, but if he goes inside, he risks getting wrapped up in something with Sam and they’ll waste the whole night hanging around here. Dean has bigger plans.

“Hey, Bobby,” Dean slaps on his best innocent smile.

“Dean,” Bobby nods with an indulgent kind of affection.

“Just finished putting in the new seats,” Dean explains, jerking his thumb back toward the darker swath of night that is the Impala, ticking her way to cool. “Though I’d take Sammy out for a drive.”

Bobby gives him an interested smile – he’s the one who got the new benchseats for Dean in the first place – and cranes his head back to yell through the kitchen and down the hall, “Sammy!”

“My name’s Sam!” fires back at him from somewhere in the depths of the house. Bobby closes his eyes and takes a deep calming breath; Dean tries not to look smug that he’s the only one still allowed to use Sammy’s nickname.

“Dean wants to take you for a ride,” Bobby yells in response, annoyance coloring his voice. And yeah, Dean definitely wants to take Sammy for a ride, but he tactfully refrains from adding anything – Bobby may love him like a son, but Dean seriously doubts that all that warm and fuzzy would extend to him fucking Bobby’s actual kid.

Sam almost falls twice in his rush from the kitchen door to the back door – kid looks like a drunk stick-bug walking around, or maybe a newborn giraffe; all long, skinny limbs and no clue what to do with them.

“Home by eleven,” Bobby says automatically as Sam brushes past him even though Dean knows Bobby’s not really going to rag on them if he brings Sammy back late; Bobby trusts him to protect Sam. One day, when it all comes out, he hopes Bobby’s not too pissed that Dean’s the one he should have been worried about protecting Sam from.

Sam kinda clings to his arm just a little on the way out to the car and Dean can’t resist lifting him off the ground for a second and spinning around like they’re way littler than they really are. They don’t kiss and stuff unless it’s somewhere private, but for Dean this is basically just as good.

He knows Sammy isn’t really a car guy – a tragedy whose proportions he can’t even fully comprehend since the kid has had both him and Bobby around all this time to pick it up from – but he nods his shaggy-topped head appreciatively when he climbs into the car, rubbing his hands over the new seats. They came secondhand from some wreck, so there’s none of that new car smell you’re supposed to get, but Dean doesn’t care because it’s still light years better than the torn, cracked covers he’s been living with and he likes the way it already feels sort of broken in and ready for him. Plus, those long, long fingers that Sammy’s developed look damn pretty moving over the vinyl.

It’s not that he’s never wanted to have sex with Sam before – he’s pretty much wanted to have sex with Sam since before he even figured out the mechanics of sex; Sammy was his very first sexual discovery and he’s never really gotten past it. Still, there are girls at school or guys at clubs in the city if Dean just wanted to have sex; in fact, he’d happily give up the sex side of things altogether if it meant that he could have Sammy in all of the other ways he wants to. So even the times Sammy’s asked for it – even after that time he turned up in Dean’s bedroom with all of this research he did on anal just so they could get it right - he’s held off on going all the way, though they’ve done pretty much everything else; not because he wanted to make it ‘special’ or something chick-flicky like that, just that he needed it to be important.

Now it’s important, and now when Sammy gives it up to him, Dean’s going to have a piece of him forever, no matter what. And maybe that will finally wake Sam up.

The air outside is cool, not cold, but just chilly enough for him to be glad he’s wearing his jacket as the tar-stained highway wind pours through the window as they go. Sammy’s probably got goosebumps – seems like the kid’s always cold – but he could very easily slide over here up against Dean’s side and be plenty warm. He doesn’t, so Dean just leaves the window down and taps the gas pedal a little harder with his foot.

If it was just the Gwen thing, maybe Dean could shake it – hell, he could get with her and that would pretty much be the end of that since the idea of Dean’s sloppy seconds always seems to give Sam the creeps; kid has some seriously weird rules – but even without her around, there’s the other thing.

The other thing is… well, Sammy calls it ‘normal’ and Dean calls it ‘boring as fuck’ but whatever. It’s this whole messed up idea Sam’s got about what life should be like; white picket fence, football games and movie dates where you pretend to yawn to get your arm around the girl’s shoulders and college and marriage and 2.5 kids. This stupid _Leave It to Beaver_ thing that Sam’s been obsessed with for pretty much forever.

It basically sounds like hell to Dean, especially with the rather obvious lack of him being the one in that white picket fenced house, getting it on with Sam, in that particular fantasy. In fact, Dean doesn’t really have a place anywhere in that whole little dream of Sammy’s and sometimes he wonders if that’s even occurred to the kid. Most of the time it scares the hell out of him to remember that there’s not a lot that doesn’t occur to Sam.

And maybe some part of Sam is ok with the idea of Dean being the best friend or the random guy down the street or ‘that guy I used to know’ while Sammy plays house with some pretty bimbo one day down the line, but he’s out of his fucking mind if he thinks _Dean’s_ ever going to let that happen. Because Sam can lie to himself all he wants, but Dean knows better – Sam may want the apple pie life more than anything, but it’s not who he is on the inside, and living like that would never be anything more than playing pretend. The kid deserves better, and Dean’s going to make sure he gets it or die trying.

It seems to take twice as long as usual to get out to the old barn on Grand Prairie Road and Dean feels like he’s living underwater for every last second of it; body screaming at him with a need and nothing to sate it with. He read somewhere about addiction running in families, or maybe Sam read it and just told him about it, but either way, he figures that it must be true; his dad’s got booze and reckless guilt, he’s got Sammy. He’d overdose on it if he could.

The engine cuts off at the flick of his wrist, just like a good girl, and that ticking little heartbeat of hers starts up again under the hood as she relaxes into the reasonably decent cover of the ramshackle barn walls and rotting haystacks. A cat pokes its head out from around one of the rafters, reflective eyes catching eerily in the headlights before Dean cuts those too and the whole place goes grey-scale.

Sammy’s just sitting over there looking not nearly kissed enough, not nearly fucked enough, that little turn to his mouth that says he thinks he knows exactly what this is all about. Hell, knowing Sam, he just might.

“Figured we needed to christen these bad boys,” Dean thumps a hand on the seat, voice coming out just as smooth and easy as he wants it to, even when his insides feel like they’re made of spun sugar and razor blades.

“Both of them?” Sam asks. Not all of that scandalized expression is a joke.

Dean just smirks and shoves the door open – not all the way, the hay barn’s a little tight for a car the Impala’s size – folding himself into the back seat easy as pie, nothing to it. This is the part he’s supposed to play, all cool and laidback, swagger and grin; sometimes it makes him want to punch himself in the face. Still, it works, and Sam’s hauling his too-big-for-it body over the back of the seat, almost falling into the footwell and ending up more than halfway on Dean’s lap, not that’s he’s complaining much.

Sammy’s going to be a damn big boy one day if he grows into all the size his hands and feet are promising, and the idea turns Dean on a lot more than he ever would have thought. He’s always been the big one, the tough protector towering over anybody who tried to pick on Sammy on the playground, but the thought of Sam being even larger, just covering him, surrounding him, it’s… yeah, it’s a damn fine thought. For now, though, he’s still got an inch or two on the kid plus a good thirty pounds of muscle, and he gets to be in charge – he’ll take what he can get while he can; and then maybe a little more, just because.

Since it’s there – and, really, why waste a good opportunity? – Dean nibbles on Sam’s ear a little bit, opens his mouth and just breaths over it until kid shivers like he’s got ice cubes running down his spine. Sammy’s kind of got an ear thing, and he’s especially got a word thing – guess it’s no surprise with how much he reads – a little dirty-sweet filth whispered just right’ll have him harder than a nice pair of tits or a pretty mouth ever have. That’ll be handy if Dean can manage to scrape together enough voice to do something about it.

He cups his hand over Sam’s groin – already more than halfway there; gotta love those hormones – feels the flesh there twitch and fill out even more like it’s responding to his command, and lets that ease the way into that place where whatever he says in the right tone of voice gets Sammy moaning like it’s the sexiest thing ever.

“You like that, baby?” He slides his mouth a little lower, flicking his tongue against the soft spot under the curve of Sam’s jaw in time with the pulse he can feel there and tightens his grip around Sam’s denim-covered shaft. “You wanna fuck my fist? Or you want more? Know I’ll give it to you, give you anything, Sammy, all you gotta do is ask.”

Sammy groans through his teeth and humps up into Dean’s hand harder, finally ekes out a “Yeah.”

There’s something about touching Sam like this that always gets to him; the heat from his dick soaking into Dean’s hand, up his arm, pouring right over into his chest until he feels like a hot water bottle full of Sam.

“You want more, baby?” There's hours’ worth of foreplay packed into it when at last he gets his mouth on Sam’s; soft lips and smooth tongue and so damn much hunger Dean feels like it’s going to swallow him alive. He loses a little time somewhere in the feel of kissing Sammy, doesn’t really gets anything out but wet, heavy breaths until quite a while later.

“You want me in inside you, don’t you?” he asks, like maybe saying it out loud will make it true. The way Sam whimpers seems like maybe it worked. “Yeah, you want me to fill you up, make you mine. ‘S what you need, aint it, Sammy?" Sam shivers and shakes on his lap, fingers tightening into fists with the fabric of his jeans caught in the middle. He nods just a little bit and it’s like molten electricity burning a line right through Dean’s chest. "I want it too, baby. Wanna be in you. So sexy, make me fuckin’ crazy.”

He probably ought to cool it, quit rubbing off against Sammy’s ass before he goes and ruins the whole plan by jizzing in his shorts, but those little sounds coming out of Sam’s throat, the way he twitches like he’s going to lose it any second just from Dean talking about it, the way he tips his head back on Dean’s shoulder and just rides his lap like this is what he was built for… no, he can’t stop. Hell, he can’t even fucking breathe.

But he’s gotta; he’s gotta or else it’s not going to happen because Sammy’s all but worthless for taking the initiative on this stuff and it needs to happen. Needs to happen before any more of the kid slips away from him.

Once he finally convinces his hand to stop massaging those noises out of Sam, it’s not too hard to pop the button on the kid’s jeans, slip the zip and shuck them and the boxers far enough down his thighs to make it count. It takes a little more to get them situated right, Sam struggling to get back the contact he wants while Dean lays him out across the seat on his belly, trying to sand down the edge Sam's riding with shushes pressed into the skin.

“Tell me you want this, Sammy,” comes out a slightly choked whisper as his stomach gets busy tying itself into some of those fancy Irish knots. He’s petting over Sam’s hole, just barely, with his fingertips; little brushes that make Sam’s skin pebble up and his breath shudder. _This_ they’ve done before, plenty of times - he’s even gotten all the way up to four inside Sammy which had pretty much taken the title of hottest thing of all time as far as Dean’s concerned - but somehow it’s different now because he’s not just doing it to see the way Sam squirms when Dean’s fingers hit that spot or how thin and delicate that puckered flesh looks stretched wide. Now it’s preparation, another step to get Sam ready to take his cock and… god, he’s going to come in his fucking pants.

“Dean,” is all Sam gasps out, blunt nails rasping on the vinyl. His mouth’s wide open, dark and a little bit swollen from Dean’s lips and he kind of wants to shove a couple of fingers in there too, then maybe his cock, and back to fingers and then kissing some more and just really work those lips over until they’re puffy and used and right. It’s too easy, though, too simple to sit back and let everything stay the same and he can’t afford that because unless he does something, Sammy’s going to walk right out on him and drown himself in that make believe life he thinks he needs.

Instead he pushes just a little at Sam’s hole, not nearly enough to go in – he’d never do it dry – just enough to snap Sam’s focus back.

“Say it, baby. Say you want it and I’ll give it to you.” He strums across the pucker again and Sammy loses this little bark of a noise while trying to rub against the seat, but no way is he getting enough friction with Dean’s hand splayed at the small of his back keeping him in place.

“Yeah. Yes, I want it. C’mon, Dean, please!”

The bottle of lube stashed under the seat rolls into his hand like an old friend and Sam actually quivers at the snick of the cap popping open.

He doesn't know why, but there's just something about Sam's ass that does things too him. Well, Sam's cock, shoulders, back, stomach, mouth, eyes, hair, dimples... pretty much everything, really; but at the moment, it's his ass. The way it's all perky and round but still slim and pert, like it’s just designed to fit into the bowl of Dean's palm. It takes a hell of a lot more effort than it really should not to just smack it a little bit and watch the muscles ripple. The warmth of it bleeds up his arm again as Dean slides his thumb along the crease, watching Sammy clench and flex as Dean closes in on that humid little spot that makes Sam hiss and writhe before he's even done anything.

Seems a shame not to use a perfect set up like this, especially when he knows what it does to Sam when he sticks his tongue right there, so he teases the kid with a lick, just north of where he really wants it, delighting in the way Sam pushes back, begging wordlessly for more.

Dean rumbles a laugh, lips pressed to the base of Sam's spine, and gives Sammy a finger, smooth as silk instead of the tongue he’s expecting. Damn, it feels so good inside, so hot and tight, seeming impossibly small, but Dean knows better; knows just how much Sam can take and the big secret he'll never really admit - how much he likes to take it.

It's not long before he's worked up to two, three, corkscrewing them in and out, spreading and curving just right until Sammy's squirming and begging with words that might not even be English for Dean to 'please, please' get a hand on him; jack him off, suck him off, anything. No patience - not that Dean's any better.

He pulls Sammy up onto his hands and knees, finally easing the brutal ache in his own groin by getting his jeans down around his knees. He'd like to do this naked, but there's that whole patience thing again, and now that he's got a slick hand wrapped around himself there's not much question about stopping for a breather - he needs to do this right fucking now.

He's really seriously considered using a condom for this, because as much as he loves the idea of nothing between him and Sam but a little lube, he can't stand the idea of anything he’s done putting Sammy at risk. But the free clinic downtown said he's in the clear - he's always been careful, with exactly this in mind - and Sam's not asking - probably wouldn't even think to, even if he were capable of more than panting against the seat right now - so Dean just lines himself up, an extra little blurt of precome welling out to slick the way just from the proximity.

God, this is it, he's really doing it, no going back after this. No going back.

Dean's fucked people before, no question, even fucked a guys before - ok, only twice, but still - but this isn't like that. This isn't like anything, because sinking cautiously, almost painfully slowly into Sam's heat to make sure he's not hurting him... It's more like the first time than his first time was.

Sam makes a sound that Dean's not sure he has a word for, and if he does, he sure as hell can't think of it now - he's too busy trying to keep from coming until he's at least all the way inside. It might be a pain sound, so Dean skates one hand around Sam's hips and tugs a little on his cock - still hard as a rock - to distract him. And oh! Oh! Fuck! Ok, apparently, stroking him off makes Sammy clench up and then everything just gets even tighter so it almost hurts but also really, really, doesn't.

Surrendering anything even masquerading as technique, Dean flops over Sam's back and plants his own hand next to Sammy's on the cool vinyl, their fingers tangling a little, unconsciously. He holds right there for a minute, balls flush with Sam's ass as those muscles ripple and squeeze and drive him absolutely insane. He sucks a hard mark to the side of Sam's neck to keep himself occupied.

So slow he's not actually sure the kid knows he's doing it, Sam's hips start to churn; these tiny little movements that make Dean gain and lose space inside of Sam by centimeters. He takes that for a signal to move, keeping it slow and as close to rhythmic as he can manage, following the thunder of his heartbeat.

They’re sweating through the fabric of their shirts from either side and Dean draws his hand away from Sam's cock for a moment - earning himself a high whine that might be his name - to ruck both of their shirts up under their arms. It's probably uncomfortable as hell, but Deans can’t really tell right now with the feel of Sam's skin pressing into his own, that blissful tightness wrapped around him.

There are times - minutes, hours, days - when he thinks that maybe he's being selfish with Sammy; there are times he _knows_ he is. That maybe all of the stuff Dean sees inside Sam when he looks at him is just a reflection or something, just seeing what he wants to see there. That maybe Sammy really does want the stuff he says he does, to be _that_ guy with _that_ girl and _that_ life; that maybe he's _supposed_ to be that. There are times Dean lays in bed listening to Sam's heartbeat under his ear and thinks he's a monster for making the kid be this way, no better than those guys in white vans stealing kids off the playground. There are times he hates himself for it.

Then something like this happens and all of those times go out the window because maybe Sam's a good enough actor to fool everybody, including himself, into believing that he's the all-American boy - that he even _wants_ to be - and maybe Dean really is a monster and it's all his fault Sammy's like this, but whatever the reasons and the lies and all of Sam's fucking rules they’re breaking, the kid needs this, needs Dean, and right now he can feel it down to the pit of his soul.

Sam pushes back against him like a wild thing, hair mussed and sticking to his slack-jawed face. His lips are slick, glistening in the dark, eyes slitted open and seemingly sightless as he arches back to let Dean abuse his mouth a little more - as far gone as Dean's ever seen him. He looks beautiful, like a goddamn angel, and Dean's pawing at him, tugging and clawing to get as far in as humanly possible, to leave as much of himself behind as he can.

"Dean, Dean, Dean," Sam mutters with every punch of breath, sound barely enunciated like he doesn't even mean to be saying it. Dean's indiscriminately biting along Sam's jaw, his lips, his cheek; nips that are probably harder than they should be, but he's too wrapped up into the feel of Sam under him, around him, slinking through his marrow, to even gauge it.

Then Sam moans, "I love you," - the first time he's ever done it without prompting - and Dean's just gone.

He's come like a shot before, whited out, so lost in pleasure he can't tell up from down, but this isn't that. This is just... gone. Like he's pouring everything he is into Sam through the hot, bone-wracking spurts of come jolting out of his dick, exploding slick and perfect and just the tiniest bit warmer all around his shaft where the mess of it is trapped inside of Sam.

He doesn't remember pulling Sam back onto him, chest to back, both of them kneeling on the seat now as he buries himself so deep that for a blissed-out minute he's certain there's no way he's ever going to come out. Sam's whines and wriggles on his lap, completely out of his head, and the brush of Dean's fingers to Sam's cockhead isn't even intentional, but it's still enough to do the job . The scream Sam lets out is nearly deafening in the confines of the car, assuming Dean hadn't already gone deaf from the swirl of blood in his ears, and a distant part of him is stupidly glad that they did this in the Impala instead of trying to be quiet with Bobby just a few rooms away.

Dean kisses along the back of Sam's sweaty neck as they come down; trying to remember what his arms and legs felt like before they turned to Jell-O. If he happens to be whispering 'mine' over and over again as he does it, at least it seems like Sammy's too out of it to call him on it.

Eventually Sam starts to hum a little in pleasure, the sound giddy and a lot loopier than he's ever heard from the kid before. The turn of his head toward Dean is more like a loll but he's grinning and kind of absently petting at Dean's thigh beneath him.

"That was sex," he murmurs goofily - if Dean didn't know better, he'd swear the kid was drunk.

Dean's laugh makes his softened dick shift around inside of Sam and, in turn, his eyes try to roll back in his head. Just really, seriously, damn.

"Yeah, it was," he croaks out after a minute, tightening his arms around Sam just in case the kid thought that was some kind of signal to get off of him or something stupid like that.

Sam grins up at the fabric ceiling and grins, "Cool."

The fine dusting of hair rising up toward Sam's navel - hasn't gotten there yet, but it still might - tickles against Dean's thumb as he strokes it, breathing into the curve of Sam's neck. It's an idiotic chance to take, but while Dean's not as stupid as everybody thinks he is, he's not always smart either, especially when he just shot his brain out of his dick. Especially when it comes to Sam.

"I love you," he exhales against Sammy's neck, nuzzling at the tendon there.

For one beautiful second, he knows it's going to happen - Sam's going to say it, finally make it real without the sex in the way - as Sammy draws in a little breath and says, "I-". That's as far as he gets, though, head ducking to catch Dean's lips instead in something soft and warm that doesn't even come close to dulling the disappointment thickening up Dean's throat.

Stupid to get his hopes up, stupid to have thought... No, it wasn't enough, still not enough. Next time he'll just have to make it better, _be_ better. For Sam.

There's no question in his mind, he can do it for Sammy; can do anything. Even make Sam realize he loves Dean too. He can.

He will.


End file.
